The following post is from Jonathon Dez-La-Lour (a.k.a jonathond2607 on our forums and jd2607 on Twitter). This can also be read on his blog - http://jd2607.posterous.com/french-toast-and-spicy-tomato-sauce

French toast is something that I’d never really tried until a few years ago, mostly because no-one else in my family likes it. I had to go and look up how to make it properly. Personally, I’m not a fan of it on its own, so I like to prepare it with some sort of savoury sauce to dip it in. So here’s my french toast and spicy tomato salsa:

 For the French Toast:

Ingredients:

• 25g Butter
• 1tbsp vegetable oil
• 2 large eggs
• 25ml milk
• Salt & Pepper
• 4 slices of thick-cut bread

Instructions:

1. Add the butter and oil to a frying pan and heat them over a medium heat until all of the white particles from the butter have dissolved.
2. While the butter’s melting mix your eggs and milk in a bowl or something similar. It needs to be big enough that you can lay a slice of bread in it.
3. Coat one slice of bread and add it to the frying pan and cook it on both sides until it’s brown.
4. Repeat this with the remaining slices of bread. Make sure to coat only one slice of bread at a time and to only coat them just before you’re going to cook them otherwise the bread will turn to mush and won’t cook properly.

 
For the Spicy Tomato Sauce:

Ingredients:

• 10 Small Tomatoes – like cherry or santini tomatoes
• 2 Medium Chillies, crushed – the colour of the chillies don’t matter much, you can use red or green here. I prefer to use red.
• 1 Clove of Garlic, crushed
• 1tbsp White Wine
• Tomato Puree

Instructions:

1. In a small pan, heat your tomatoes, chillies, garlic and wine.
2. Use a wooden spoon to crush the tomatoes so that they form a chunky sauce.
3. If your sauce is looking a little pale, add some tomato puree to give it a bit more colour.
4. Transfer your sauce to a bowl and serve while still warm.

I love this sauce, it’s spicy and a little bit fruity and just a hint of the flavour of wine underneath. I think it compliments the french toast perfectly, but you could just as easily use it to dip your chips in as an alternative to ketchup.

Are there any other nations that deep-fry their national dish?

Fish plus chips equals Britain. It is, along with a plate of pink roast beef and fluffy Yorkshire pudding, the food which the majority of visitors to the UK want to sample first upon arrival. So let’s explore why. A little theatre of the mind now…

It is a crisp, clear and starry night, with a biting wind trying its best to get into your collar and deaden your fingertips as you exit the cinema. The popcorn/Cornetto combination has made a temporary dent in your hunger, but now it returns with a vengeance as the sharp tang of hot vinegar mingles with the deeply savoury smell of hot oil and potatoes. You approach the brightly lit doorway, the only shop operating at this time of night in the high street, and join the queue. A high counter with a stainless steel and glass hot cupboard display a coterie of crispy, amber coloured treats, from palm-sized fishcakes to cricket bat cod fillets. The delicious and unique smell of this place is in part down to the beef dripping that they use in the fryer, a chip-shop secret since its inception in Victorian times. There are Land Of The Giants-style salt and vinegar shakers (i.e bloody gigantic…), the latter being full of the only vinegar allowed onto fish and chips; the mouth-puckeringly sharp and powerful Sarson’s Malt Vinegar. There are jars of pickled onions and eggs, sometimes even a few jars of cockles and whelks, and the quintessential chipshop drink, the fizzy elixir known as Vimto. Finally, you get your hands on your own warm parcel and head home or simply find a bench or comfy stretch of wall on which to unwrap your supper. As with a perfect sausage sandwich, this dish is at its best when still slightly too hot to eat comfortably. The rich, vinegary savour is released as a puff of steam when the paper wrapper is unfolded, and the first breach of the crisp batter revealing thick, soft flakes of cod is a moment almost unmatched by any other meal in terms of pure satisfaction and comfort.

The mouth-watering promise of that prose is why fish and chips are world famous. Now, my dear visitor, for the sad reality.

It is becoming almost impossible to find an old fashioned and honest chip shop. The simple genius of fine fresh fish battered and accompanied by local potatoes chipped and dropped into a deep vat of rendered beef fat is not enough any more, it seems. Nowadays you should expect to see the slowly rotating elephants leg of a doner kebab grill, or perhaps burgers, some southern fried chicken slowly dessicating in a glass hot cupboard, perhaps? This dilution inevitably leads to less attention to the fish and chip part of the business offering – end result? Decidedly average to poor fish, coated in a powdered batter mix with about as much taste as an envelope, and poorly maintained fryers/laziness resulting in frankly rubbish chips that taste mildly burnt. Yum. Slowly but surely, this British legend is being blended with every other takeaway service on its street. A large contributor to this sea change (pun partially intended) is the shadowy spectre of sustainable codfish stocks. Atlantic cod at one point in recent history faced virtual extinction thanks to merciless and irresponsible over fishing. Things have changed considerably, and top quality sustainable cod is widely available albeit at a significantly higher price than before, but this is the price of respecting the population and breeding habits of edible species. I serve the most beautiful Atlantic cod in my restaurant and it is undoubtedly worth every extra penny, as my customers will agree. But I digress. The simple fact I’m making is that the price of good cod has gone up, so most chip shops have moved into other areas and refused to pay for the good stuff. This is not always due to the meanness of owners, but more likely the wallet-conscious public baulking at the idea of a price hike for the good of their fish supper. It’s a crying shame.

Okay, soapbox away…Hey! You’re not here for a lecture, you’re here to find out what’s so good about British food! Let’s have a little deep-fried journey around the isle…

Like a teenager, the British as a whole have an inbuilt craving for crisp, hot and salty foods submerged in hot oil. Arguably the best fish and chips in England at least come from the south coast, specifically Devon and Cornwall, but all coastal areas are lined with shops “frying tonight”. A general rule of thumb appears to be that the further north you go, the more deep fried things are available. The cities of Middlesborough and Newcastle thought to be the home of the calorific A-bomb known simply as a “Parmo”. Ready? A flattened chicken breast is coated in batter or crumb and fried, THEN topped with a white cheese sauce and a final topping of cheddar cheese, then it’s into a pizza oven, and then a takeaway box along with, naturally, chips. All I can say to my quite possibly shell shocked friends in egg white omelette, wheatgrass drinking California or similar places is…it’s very, VERY cold in the North East, and hot fat, salt and its inherent bursts of quick energy help when the moisture on your eyeballs wants to freeze. The people who make Kendal Mint Cake are in the same business. But I am leaving the best till last.

(Or should that be worst?)

The Scottish love the chippie like no other folk on the planet. Coincidentally, they love dying of heart disease too but we’ll gloss over that. This is a country that my previous diatribe doesn’t apply to, and the idea of a “fish supper”will live forever in the howlingly cold and bitter nights that Scots from Leith Walk to the Highlands experience. This time, the drink of choice is not Vimto, but it’s equally sweet cousin Irn-Bru (made in Scotland from Girrrrr-Derrrrrs, as the advert tells us). Got a food you like? In Scotland? Take it to the local chip shop, and they’ll batter and fry it for you, no questions asked. There is a huge list of successful and not-so successful fried experiments in Scottish chippies, the most famous being the deep-fried Mars Bar, an already sickly and rich concoction of caramel, nougat and chocolate. Battered, it becomes something beyond unhealthy, but the hit of sugar and hot fat is almost unmatchable. Ditto the deep-fried Cadburys Creme Egg, its filling of fondant making it akin to a crispy hard boiled egg filled with treacly cement. The competition was on with other, often poor quality junk foods being dipped in the batter jug and fried as an offering to the gods of cholesterol. An underground smash is the deep fried pizza. Yep, you heard right. A whole cheap supermarket pizza, battered and fried, then smeared with HP Sauce and folded over, like some hellspawn inversion of calzone. The food love that dares not speak its name indeed. All these variations are based on the same point: Scotland needs deep frying. Oh yes, and Freeeeeeedoooooooooom…

So I guess that is about it for a behemoth of a subject like Fish and Chips. I welcome a lot of comment on this one, from both home and abroad, not least because it has taken me so long to post. I can only apologise for my tardiness in updating the blog, and plead mercy for a chef in a very busy little pub that leaves me currently with almost no time for anything else. An in-progress draft of this post has been on my laptop for almost a month, and it is only now that I can finish it for publication. Rest assured that I still absolutely love writing these pieces, and I appreciate all who take a few minutes to read them. They will continue, I promise.

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

PS. I am aware of the existence in the US of the deep fried Twinkie. The only accompaniment I can suggest with this would be insulin. There was also an example of deep fried Coca-Cola, but that makes my teeth itch just thinking about it…

So……

It turns out, after my first delve into research for this piece, that the cream cracker is not British, strictly speaking. America was the birthplace, and every half–decent general store would have a barrel full of these easily made, cheap crackers, originally sold as a source of roughage for the maintaining of a healthy US……you know. But it is nonetheless a quintessential household prescence here in GB due to the endeavours of brothers William and Robert Jacob. They took note of the popularity of the US cracker and upon return to their Dublin factory (Irish Republic again…one day I’ll do an ACTUAL British creation, I promise) he began production of the cream cracker as we know it in 1885. It was no doubt that their plainness appealed to the Victorian sensibilty, who no doubt viewed anything spicy or stimulating as a tool of Beelzebub to corrupt the morals. The cracker fit this attitude like a glove. 

Other countries have similar cracker biscuits, but none seem to taste the same as our perfect Jacob’s. Crisp without being hard, with a mild toasty flavour (and I’m talking mild) and wrapped unmistakeably in a glorious livery of bright orange with a distinctive black diamond holding it’s makers name, Cream Crackers demand to be coupled with a bit of butter and some cheese. I am slightly afraid of  stopping to consider just how many cream cracker and Chedddar “sandwiches” I have consumed in my lifetime. Let’s just say it’s a lot. It was my go-to homecoming snack in my schooldays, and anyone with a passing notion of the teenage boy and his unending hunger will get the message. And it really has to be Cheddar. Sorry, but it does. Pesto or Mozzarella di Buffale are divine, but don’t put them on a cream cracker, there’s a good soldier. 

This leads to another illustration of just how well this little crisp biscuit square fits the national psyche. It doesn’t like to make a fuss or put on airs. It despises being thought of as wanting to be above its station. It displays this by being at its best with decidely ordinary cheese. A plastic wrapped chunk of corner shop, mass-produced cheddar is the best friend a cream cracker could have. Leave the earthy, majestic unpasteurised Montgomery Cheddar, or hand crafted Cornish Yarg with its beautiful nettle leaf rind to the oatcake. JCC’s don’t want any trouble.

And just how much more could it be made for British tastebuds and, sadly just as important, wallets? Pale? Check? Crunchy? Check? Cheap? Check. Sold! At one point, JCCs accounted for 50% of the UK cracker market; these days it doesn’t enjoy quite such a monopoly. Times are changing, as shown by Jacob’s launch of the Mediterranean version of the sacred Cream Cracker. But would you really want to try and eat three of those without a drink? (Sorry, forgot to mention. The cracker has another beloved British use, namely as entertainment for drunken crowds or children’s parties. The idea is to eat three, without the aid of liquid lubrication, in under 60 seconds. Sounds easy, but for anyone who has tried, it becomes akin to trying to eat a mouthful of sand. Oh, and the world record is 49.15secs, held by Ambrose Mendy) Despite these moves towards a more internationally welcoming nibble, I can’t imagine a time when we will evolve past the simple, unassuming delight of the triple whammy – crunchy biscuit, salty butter and completely non-farmhouse cheese.

Now go and watch A Grand Day Out to get you in the mood.

Croosh

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)

The most striking thing about the whole notion of our national relationship with OXO…is that we really don’t need it at all. Yet 2 MILLION of these salty brown cubes of beef extract and flavouring are bought every day by a public who, it seems, have something to hide meat-wise; I’m guessing that  they are only used to mask what would otherwise be low grade, poorly produced proteins. But as anyone with a little knowledge of cooking will already be aware, a wonderful meal can be attained with a little skill and patience using only a few carrots and a bit of scrag-end. The tragedy in ignoring the crucial component of a piece of roasting meat – namely the slowly dripping juices, the heart and soul of the joint – and smothering it in a glutinous synthetic gravy cannot be understated. So what makes us reach for the little fellas so readily? Well, I’ve thought about it, and once again I believe it is our desire to preserve links to earlier times. OXO enjoyed its greatest popularity after WWII, providing an over-abundence of rich gravy to wallow in, after years of thrift and rationing. Therefore it became a symbol of a happy nation, home once more and sitting around the dinner table. This was adopted into the hugely successful advertising campaign featuring the OXO Family (Youtube it) which went on for many years, fnishing only relatively recently, and even then with some public outcry. Do not underestimate the tactile and visual appeal, too. I am sure it was no accident that the two colours of OXO’s packaging are red and white, the colours of the St. George Cross.  And then there is the cube itself. We Brits, as I have stated previously, like a household item with an element of fun to it. Toilet Duck, Shake n’ Vac, Kit Kat wrappers (well, not now) are all examples of an unnecessary preponderence toward fun to capture the mischievous British imagination. There is a certain undefined delight to be had in carefully peeling away the silver foil neatly binding the cube, then crumbling this cow-flavoured compost into your chosen dish. I must admit to using them in a Bolognese at home, with good results, but gravy? Can’t bring myself to do it. 

One little footnote. I had a friend at primary school who used to eat OXO cubes like sweets. I wonder what state his blood pressure is in now?

Thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave a comment, positive or negative. By which I mean always positive…

Croosh

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)

We have a long tradition on this ancient island of being content to admit that our best efforts foodwise are trumped by other offerings of the same kind from other parts of the world. It’s a debatable claim that Britain produces the greatest beef (I happen to agree, but the cattle farmers of Argentina, the monks of Kobe or many other producers would beg to differ), and even the Sunday roast, as grand and heavenly as it can be, cannot assuredly sit atop a list of the finest meals humanity can provide. But, amidst all of this ambiguity and debate, there is one area where we Brits, unarguably, lead the planet. I am talking of the simple task of toasting a piece of bread and putting something on it. Our neighbours  near and far have their quick and inexpensive solutions to satisfy a growling hunger – a crackling hot samosa from India, a Vietnamese rice pancake roll, the elegance of a Parisien butter croissant or the thick, fluffly churros of Spain are all wonderful but I would choose a round of thick, crispy buttered toast every time. Of course, and I hear you say it already, other countries do toast. Yes they do. But somehow, either through a worry of calorie consumption or simply an oversight of this little snack’s importance, they just don’t get it right. I’ve eaten toast in America, but it is always served with something else, almost apologetically. And I’m always supposed to put grape bloody jelly on it, too. A friend went to Japan and had the misfortune to come across the flabby, pallid offering there. No, the crucial aspect of toast that seems lost to the rest of the planet is, are you ready?

TOAST IS A VEHICLE TO TRANSFER AS MUCH MELTED BUTTER (SHORT OF DRINKING IT) TO YOUR MOUTH AS POSSIBLE

Sorry about the capitals, but there you have it, the central mantra of the cult of toast. And it is a cult, I promise you. Toast is beguiling to us because (and why do I always mention this factor in every episode?) it is cheap. It is also a dish that anyone with basic motor functions can cook. And it’s good at any point of the day or night. In times of extreme poverty or inactivity, one can live on toast quite happily – visit most university halls of residence and you will find my claim proved. However down on your luck, however misfortunate your situation, chances are you can still scrape together a round of buttered toast, or an approximation.

So what makes it a world beater? Good bread, for one. There are wonderfully delicious breads in every nation, but a good white bloomer or similar is the only thing that works for toast. Ciabatta? One word – holes. You’d be cleaning up butter for ten minutes. Even a perfect San Franciscan sourdough loaf just doesn’t seem right. No, it needs to be a simple white loaf, sliced thickly (an inch should do it), carefully toasted to your personal degree of done-ness. It must be crisp, and if you are lucky enough to own the hulking iron sumo wrestler of an oven known as an AGA, then you have access to the finest toast possible. The AGA toast utensil, essentially two mesh panels that clamp your bread in place, with a protruding handle that allows you to turn the toast, rotisserie-style. The wonderful crispness and charred edges that this imparts belong only to the effects of this one cooker. But if we could afford an AGA, we wouldn’t be living on toast, would we? So, you’ve toasted your bread to perfection. Now for the butter. There is no great wisdom to impart here. Essentially, you need to get as much as possible onto your slice whilst it is hot, so that you will have the wonderful combination of warm, crisp crunchy dough, and the chin-dribbling richness of melted butter with each bite. Add a mug of tea to the situation, and you have a portrait of Britain to rival anything Constable could have committed to canvas. But we don’t stop there. Why not put something on the odd slice? A new cavalcade of options present themselves, and this is where toast becomes a deeply personal affair. There is the grown-up bitterness of breakfast marmalade although my younger brothers liked to temper this by combining it with peanut butter, or one of the many jams on offer (But no grape jelly. At least call it jam, then we’ll talk.). Why not go fully native and enjoy the delights of Marmite, a glossy black yeast spread, so salty that it is only enjoyable as a thin scraping across your slice? (Marmite will be an episode on its own, FYI). Toast’s zen-like simplicity and eagerness to go with other things make it a best friend of many a reluctant cook, and a beloved comfort to those far from home. British children partially exist on toast, and I believe that this creates the comfort association in adults. My dearest toast related memory (never typed THAT before) has to be the Sunday night ritual of bath, followed by toast and hot chocolate in front of the TV, whilst you have your hair dried. Nothing teaches hand eye coordination and concentration quite like trying to bite a piece of toast whilst simultaneously watching Catchphrase and having your head shaken like a cocktail by towelled hands. This memory is a bittersweet one for a few reasons. I owe my love of American Football to this weekly occurrence, as Channel 4 were the station that brought the sport to the UK in the Eighties, and their round-up on Sunday night with former Falcon Mick Luckhurst captivated me and my Dad equally. It also meant that once a year I could stay up and watch the Superbowl with him, an outrageous treat that I looked forward to as soon as the Playoffs began. I’d obediently go to bed mid-afternoon in order to prepare myself for the greatest show on Earth later. Dad would wake me up, and I’d sit with him watching the unashamed carnival that is Superbowl Sunday. That is, until I fell asleep sometime in the second quarter. Every bloody year. Now, I used the word bittersweet in relation to this weekly routine, and the bitter part came at the end, when the last of the toast had gone, the powdery final slurp of hot chocolate disappeared, and Mick said goodnight. Then, on the way to bed the creeping depression of the prospect of Monday morning at school would gather, forcing out the earlier exhuberance. In class the next day, your mind would occasionally wander back to that now otherwordly place of warm toast, sweet cocoa, a roaring coal fire and the LA Raiders cheating to a win as your hair danced in front of your eyes.

If you’re not either toasting or about to toast bread right now, I’ve misjudged you.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy these little voyages as much as I do. Any feedback or questions from curious non-Brits are greatly appreciated, and I am planning on doing two collaborative episodes sometime soon, namely Biscuits, and Sweets. Anyone who would like to contribute by writing a small ode to their favourite biscuit or sweet shop item, feel free to e-mail me at heregoesnothing@simplysyndicated.com, or by any number of other ways should you be a friend of mine…

Croosh

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)

.

There are few things dearer to my heart (or should that be my stomach) than a Mcvities Jaffa Cake. A wonder of food engineering, flavour and texture combination, Jaffas illustrate well the British tendency to enjoy a foodstuff with a hint of playfulness and fun about it. A small disc of firm, dry sponge holding a smaller disc of tangy marmalade coloured jelly, the jelly half finished with an ethereally thin layer of dark chocolate. Chocolate and orange are always a fine combination, and the “smashing orangey bit”(as advertising instructed us was the term for the centre of the Jaffa Cake) is refreshingly sharp and holds up well to the twin attack of  chocolate and slightly stale tasting sponge. I must point out here that a hint of staleness with regards to confectionary is no bad thing for the British. In fact, we have a soft spot for really low quality sweet things, waxy “chocolate” Rainbow Drops being one example that springs to mind from my happy sweetshop memories. No, for some of us, the beauty of the Jaffa Cake lies in the ritual of how you eat them. Heaven forbid that we should actually just bite, then chew. No, no. This is Great Britain! Do you scrape the chocolate away with your front teeth, then separating the jelly from its spongey mooring? Or is it a case of  precision-nibbling away the sponge, to then attack either the orange from below, or to strip it of its choccy covering. The saliva producing quality of Jaffas makes them one of the most horrendously moreish snack cakes that money can buy, and many a large cardboard tube has been finished off at a shamefully fast speed. (Ahem) Indeed, they have long been known as a staple of cash-strapped students eager for sugar to dampen down the munchie attack brought forth via daytime TV/Jazz Cigarettes…

So how long have we been in love with this plucky little fella? Like most things British, it has a long history, first emerging waaaay back in 1927, and remaining popular ever since. A question also remained popular too, namely: Is a Jaffa Cake a cake or is it in fact a biscuit? Now, under UK law, no VAT is paid on biscuits and cakes, with one notable exception. Chocolate covered biscuits incur value added tax. Her Majesty’s Customs And Excise challenged this in 1991 and took McVities to court over the matter, probably due to the fact that Jaffas are about the same size as most biscuits. McVities responded by making a giant Jaffa Cake – the thought of it just makes my knees go – to show that they were essentially just miniature versions of cakes. The court ruled in their favour and subsequently we can say for definite that the Jaffa is indeed a cake. Waste of court time? I think not! Truly a British icon (my Nan told me of a meal in her youth where a solitary Jaffa Cake was given as a dessert), a world without smashing orangey bits is a world I want no part of. Just watch Spaced to see the joy that they elicit. That’s how we feel about ‘em!

Croosh
Casey – Here Goes Nothing

Wait! Come back!

There can be no middle ground with Black Pudding, the Holy Grail of our sausage repertoire here in Blighty. It is a something of fascination to many outside of these shores that we eat so many of the squiggly, alien-shaped organs and glands of our farm animals, but rather than Viking-imbued bloodlust, it is simply down to our ancestors stubborn refusal to discard any part of an animal we have slaughtered. Black Pudding illustrates this attitude perfectly…not to mention deliciously.

Okay, let’s come clean. It’s blood. Lots of blood. If you eat black pudding, There Will Be Blood. A combination of pig and ox blood is thickened with oats, diced pork fat, pearl barley and usually cereal or rusk. This is then piped into casing as per any other variety of sausage. These are then boiled and allowed to cool. When required, the pudding is most commonly sliced then fried or grilled until crisp. No Full English Breakfast (and an entry on that will come, rest assured) would be complete without it, yet more often than not the common reaction to the idea of Black Pudding is…..”Urgh! I’m not eating that.” Pervading modern squeamishness equates the creation of these sausages as something monstrous, an anachronism in today’s ethically minded, caring approach to meat. Well, bollocks to that. I freely admit that a butcher’s kitchen awash with blood and rusk(no exaggeration – according to Andy, my butcher, it takes around 90 litres of blood to make a decent batch. That’s at least a Shining lift-full) isn’t as appealing as, say, artisan salted caramels or other 21st century wonders but to ignore it is a travesty. According to WordPress, I’ve got to 274 words and I haven’t talked about how it tastes yet. Nothing shows the strength of feeling on either side of the BP fence better than that.

So how does it taste? Well, to paraphrase actor Troy Mcclure, “Slow down Jimmy. You just asked a mouthful.” How Black Pudding tastes depends totally upon the skill of the maker – both practically AND with the choice of seasonings – coupled with the quality of the ingredients. I’ve eaten the best and worst of BP and I must say that if the only reference point I had was the poor stuff, well, I wouldn’t like it either. At it’s worst, it is dry and sour, with an abundence of salt and pepper to mask the scarcity of pig and over-reliance on cereals. But at it’s best…delicately spiced, soft with a light crumbliness and a deeply comforting feel in the mouth and on the tastebuds. It has no strong flavour to dominate, so those put off by comparisons to things like liver or kidney are really, REALLY missing something special. Blood is a by-product of pork production, so to use it is to show respect for the animal that gave its life. We don’t just do it to freak out the tourists. We do it because it’s really good. But don’t just take our word for it. Ask the Spanish or Latin Americans, who have their own beloved morcilla, or the respective blood sausage recipes of France(the world famous boudin noir), Germany, Romania, Iceland, Sweden and many more around the globe. Our own BP does not have one definitive recipe. Indeed, the finest have recipes as secret as that of Coca-Cola et al, guarded and passed down under high security. We have national competitions, as well as fierce rivalry between regions and counties concerning whose pud is superior. We like doing the infighting thing, you’ll see more examples as the weeks go on…

My personal favourite? Many places lay claim to being the originator, and the clearest shout for this in my mind is the town of Bury in Lancashire. But I’m afraid I have a different winner (sorry, Meks!). I suppose I’m breaking my own rules here as the nation I choose, namely the Republic of Ireland, is not part of Great Britain, but I’m sure they won’t mind. The Black Pudding mecca is to be found in the town of Clonakilty, West County Cork. A beautiful place to start with, it now supplies most top restaurants and home cooks in the know with the finest BP I have ever tasted. It’s also the country that gave us the sibling White Pudding (can you guess what they took out to make it White Pudding? Correct.) which is darn fine eatin’, too. But were I to recommend anything, it would to be to find your local independent butcher and buy a homemade, local example.It will either be in small pebbles, loops or huge shiny torpedoes, the likes of which you would expect to find more suited to a shagpile carpet in the San Fernando Valley. That shape is the one commonly found in supermarkets. I generally wouldn’t touch the stuff in most supermarkets with a barge-pole, and I put down a lot of  the personal dislikes of BP to bad supermarket examples. They just can’t resist filling them with rubbish, you see.

Fried to perfect crispness, it is a thing of wonder. And not just as part of a fry-up. Black Pudding and the sweet/sharp notes of apples get along very well, and Black Pudding with scallops is not just a pretentious restaurant gimmick. It’s genuinely delicious. In this country it has become something of a garnish for trendy chefs and sometimes suffers for it, but I have used it to great effect in a number of varied dishes, and I’m pretty sure I shall never get tired of it. So I shall close with a plea to apprehensive visitors and squeamish natives alike: PLEASE GIVE IT A CHANCE! It’s really rather good.

Croosh

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

Short and sweet this time around, with sweet being the operative word…

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you a legend of the West Country. The Lardy Cake, as it’s name lets slip, is a dried fruit bread using rendered pork fat and copious amounts of unrefined sugar. Created in Wiltshire, regional versions are found wherever pig farming occurs in high volume, and again it can be directly attributed to frugality, a national pastime. But what a way to use up lard! There can be few things more delightful and agreeable to eat with a growling stomach than this soft, sweet loaf flecked with orange peel and currants, lubricated with an opaque film of crunchy sugar-fat, leaving fingertips and mouth edges glistening with every indulgent mouthful. 

The heart stopping, shock-horror calorific orgy of Lardy Cake is both the best and worst thing about it. In today’s low-fat, guilt laden diet mentality there is no place for such a time traveller, a relic of ages past where fat, sugar and flour were a means of staving off the persistent cold inherent to the British Isles. Now we have central heating (not to mention global warming), and a cake of sugar and pig, turned upside down to cool so that the maximum amount of good stuff soaks back into it is not wanted by many.

That’s many, not all. (cough) 

There’s no doubt about it, Lardy Cake is disappearing. Slowly but surely, even in prime pig country where I sit and type this, it becomes less easily to find it year after year. I eventually expect it to become a quaint oddity, one for arch cookbook writers to throw in as a humourous aside….”Of course, you won’t actually COOK this!?” Personally, I blame the association with the US term “Lardass”. Hard not to think of it with each bite. 

But, my friend, if you are lucky enough to find a baker who makes this wonderful treat, don’t deny yourself. Take a slice home, and eat it in the only way it should be eaten – with a mug of strong tea, and a clear conscience. 

Croosh

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

Are there any other nations that would deep-fry their national dish?

Fish and chips ARE Great Britain. Along with a plate of pink roast beef and fluffy Yorkshire pudding, it is the food which the majority of visitors to the UK want to sample first upon arrival. So, let’s explore why. A little theater of the mind now…

It is a crisp, clear and starry night, with a biting wind trying its best to get into your collar and deaden your fingertips as you exit the cinema. The popcorn/Cornetto combination has made a temporary dent in your hunger, but now it returns with a vengeance as the sharp tang of hot vinegar mingles with the deeply savory smell of hot oil and potatoes. You approach the brightly lit doorway, the only shop operating at this time of night in the high street, and join the queue. A high counter with a stainless steel and glass hot cupboard display a coterie of crispy, amber coloured treats, from palm-sized fishcakes to cricket bat cod fillets. The delicious and unique smell of this place is in part down to the beef dripping that they use in the fryer, a chip-shop secret since its inception in Victorian times. There are Land Of The Giants-style salt and vinegar shakers (i.e bloody gigantic…), the latter being full of the only vinegar allowed onto fish and chips; the mouth-puckeringly sharp and powerful Sarson’s Malt Vinegar. There are jars of pickled onions and eggs,sometimes even a few jars of cockles and whelks, and the quintessential chipshop drink, the fizzy elixir known as Vimto. Finally, you get your hands on your own warm parcel and head home or simply find a bench or comfy stretch of wall on which to unwrap your supper. As with a perfect sausage sandwich, this dish is at its best when still slightly too hot to eat comfortably. The rich, vinegary savour is released as a puff of steam when the paper wrapper is unfolded, and the first breach of the crisp batter revealing thick, soft flakes of cod is a moment almost unmatched by any other meal in terms of pure satisfaction and comfort.

Thatis why fish and chips are world famous.

Now the sad reality. It is becoming almost impossible to find an old fashioned and honest chip shop. The simple genius of fine fresh fish battered and accompanied by local potatoes chipped and dropped into a deep vat of rendered beef fat is not enough any more, it seems. Nowadays you should expect to see the slowly rotating elephants leg of a doner kebab grill, or perhaps burgers, some southern fried chicken slowly dessicating in a glass hot cupboard, perhaps? This dilution inevitably leads to less attention to the fish and chip part of the business offering – end result? Decidedly average to poor fish, coated in a powdered batter mix with about as much taste as an envelope, and poorly maintained fryers/laziness resulting in frankly rubbish chips that taste mildly burnt. Yum. Slowly but surely, this British legend is being blended with every other takeaway service on its street. A large contributor to this sea change (pun partially intended) is the shadowy spectre of sustainable codfish stocks. Atlantic cod at one point in recent history faced virtual extinction thanks to merciless and irresponsible over fishing. Things have changed considerably, and top quality sustainable cod is widely available albeit at a significantly higher price than before, but this is the price of respecting the population and breeding habits of edible species. I serve the most beautiful Atlantic cod in my restaurant and it is undoubtedly worth every extra penny, as my customers will agree. But I digress. The simple fact I’m making is that the price of good cod has gone up, so most chip shops have moved into other areas and refused to pay for the good stuff. This is not always due to the meanness of owners, but more likely the wallet-conscious public baulking at the idea of a price hike for the good of their fish supper. It’s a crying shame.

Okay, soapbox away…Hey! You’re not here for a lecture, you’re here to find out what’s so good about British food! Let’s have a little journey around the isle…

Like a teenager, the British as a whole have an inbuilt craving for crisp, hot and salty foods submerged in hot oil. Arguably the best fish and chips in England at least come from the south coast, specifically Devon and Cornwall, but all coastal areas are lined with shops “frying tonight”. A general rule of thumb appears to be that the further north you go, the more deep fried things are available. The Durham cities of Middlesborough and Newcastle are the home of the calorific A-bomb known simply as a “Parmo”. Ready? A flattened chicken breast is coated in batter or crumb and fried, THEN topped with a white cheese sauce and a final topping of cheddar cheese, then it’s into a pizza oven, and then a takeaway box along with, naturally, chips. All I can say to my quite possibly shell shocked friends in egg white omelette, wheatgrass drinking California or similar places is…it’s very, VERY cold in the North East, and hot fat, salt and its inherent bursts of quick energy help when the moisture on your eyeballs wants to freeze. The people who make Kendal Mint Cake are in the same business. But I am leaving the best till last.

(Or should that be worst?)

The Scottish love the chippie like no other folk on the planet. Coincidentally, they love dying of heart disease too but we’ll gloss over that. This is a country that my previous diatribe doesn’t apply to, and the idea of a “fish supper”will live forever in the howlingly cold and bitter nights that Scots from Leith Walk to the Highlands experience. This time, the drink of choice is not Vimto, but it’s equally sweet cousin Irn-Bru (made in Scotland from Girrrrr-Derrrrrs, as the advert tells us). Got a food you like? In Scotland? Take it to the local chip shop, and they’ll batter and fry it for you, no questions asked. There is a huge list of successful and not-so successful fried experiments in Scottish chippies, the most famous being the deep-fried Mars Bar, an already sickly and rich concoction of caramel, nougat and chocolate. Battered, it becomes something beyond unhealthy, but the hit of sugar and hot fat is almost unmatchable. Ditto the deep-fried Cadburys Creme Egg, its filling of fondant making it akin to a crispy hard boiled egg filled with treacly cement. The competition was on with other, often poor quality junk foods being dipped in the batter jug and fried as an offering to the gods of cholesterol. An underground smash is the deep fried pizza. Yep, you heard right. A whole supermarket pizza, battered and fried. The food love that dares not speak its name indeed. All these variations are based on the same point: Scotland needs deep frying. Oh yes, and Freeeeeeedoooooooooom…

Regardless of these horror stories, the one thing I must impress upon anyone who has never sampled fish and chips or their slightly more dishevelled cousins mentioned above…when done properly, it really is one of the most deeply comforting and lip-smackingly DELICIOUS foods you will ever, ever eat. If you visit, you have to try it, no ifs, no buts, no calorie counting. Just get in line and dont forget a couple of chipforks.

Croosh

PS. I am aware of the existence in the US of the deep fried Twinkie. The only accompaniment I can suggest with this would be insulin. There was also an example of deep fried Coca Cola that makes my teeth itch just thinking about it…

Casey – Here Goes Nothing

ROSE GRAY 28 JANUARY 1939 – 28 FEBRUARY 2010

Sunday 28th February saw the sad passing after a prolonged battle with cancer of Rose Gray, a bona fide legend in the world of catering, and indeed modern British cuisine. I won’t treat this article as a formal obituary, but simply a mark of respect and gratitude from a chef aspiring to follow the example of Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers. The pair opened a decidedly ramshackle, unassuming Italian cafe on Thames Wharf in the London borough of Hammersmith, initially as a canteen for the local business community. The striking difference to this canteen however was the emphasis on honest, ingredient-led cooking as experienced by Gray during stints living and working in Tuscany. This sounds like the credo of every London restaurant now, but in 1987 it was a revelation. As Gray said, Italian food at that point was “all Spaghetti Bolognese and Tiramisu”.

The River Cafe changed all that, and more. At that point, London dining establishments were in the grip of Nouvelle Cuisine fever, the epitome of Emperor’s New Clothes 80′s tackiness. Flavour profiles and the showcasing of wonderful ingredients were eschewed in favour of competing to see who was ballsy enough to put the weirdest combinations of car-crash flavours together in miniscule portions, with a horrifying price tag to solidify the soulless “greed is good” trend of the city. As for the rest of the country – you really don’t want to know what the general level of dining was in 1987. Trust me. Thank the Food Gods, then, for Rose and Ruth and the shimmering oasis of the River Cafe. Dishes were served that sometimes only had two or three ingredients. Platings were simple. The ingredient was the king, the lure, the dangling carrot was, well, very often a carrot. The Cafe soon became massively popular, an institution to food lovers. The pair were approached to write a book. They declined, explaining that they were cooks, not writers. Eventually they were won over, and again, I give thanks that they did. Of all chefs who publish cookbooks, and I mean ALL, the biggest testament to the impact of these two ladies I can impart is that the River Cafe Cookbook, not to mention it’s progeny, has been present in every single kitchen I have ever worked in. More than Larousse, Escoffier, even the college-issued “Practical Cookery”, the Ramsay and Oliver ouvre (and more of the latter in a moment) – if the chef had a love for food, you could bet there would be a dog-eared, splattered copy of TRCC somewhere in the dry store. Everything in those books, as long as you followed the recipes, both worked and tasted delicious. And I’ve cooked the first book from cover to cover. Spaghetti with Crab and Chilli, Amarone Risotto, Zuppa di Pesce, Sea Bass with Lemon and Fennel…I learnt a lot about respecting the things you cook from their recipes. Another great point of admiration I have for Gray is the total lack of desire to become famous outside of the kitchen. Make no mistake, there was no celebrity in this chef. She took her pleasure from the undeniable buzz that is to be had from working a stove, running a pass, and in training youngsters. This last aspect is legendary when talking about the River Cafe. In the near two and a half decades of trading, the Cafe produced a good percentage of Britain’s best young chefs, most famously the now for better or worse ubiquitous Jamie Oliver. Look through an Oliver cookbook, then bring up the current menu at the River Cafe to see the difference made by Gray’s teaching. She may not have had a show on the Food Network, a range of signature pans or a raft of annoying TV commercials, but in my world, in the circles I move in, we have lost a true national treasure in the incomparable Rose Gray. The legacy she leaves is the most perfect tribute.

Rose Gray (front) and Ruth Rogers at work in the River Cafe

Casey – (Here Goes Nothing)

Here’s a fantastic and relatively cheap winter soup that takes a somewhat dull and bland vegetable and makes it anything but. Incidentally, our overseas readers may know swede as rutabaga. I’d have it with thick toast or warm fresh crusty bread. Let me know what you think if you made it!

ROASTED SWEDE AND HONEY SOUP
SERVES APPROX 4

1 swede, peeled and chopped into bite-sized pieces
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp honey
1 onion, finely chopped
1 celery stalk, finely chopped
1 litre stock (cubes/powder is fine)
4 sprigs thyme
125ml cream
2 tsp fresh rosemary needles, chopped

Preheat the oven to 200C/Gas 6. Place the swede on a roasting tin and drizzle over half the oil and the honey. Place in the oven and bake for 20-30 minutes. Blitz in the food processor and set to one side.

Heat the remaining oil in a medium-sized saucepan, add the onion and celery and cook for a few minutes until translucent but not coloured. Add the stock and thyme, bring to the boil, then simmer for 10 minutes.

Liquidise and pass through a sieve, add to the swede, then add the cream, adjust the seasoning and serve in warmed bowls with a sprinkling of rosemary.

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)

As a little addendum to the Cheese episode of Crimes Against Food (perhaps we could call this a fancy garnish), I’m offering a couple of fine additions to any cheeseboard – firstly, the national institution that is the Jacob’s Cream Cracker and just why we love it so, and secondly, a quick recipe for Tomato, Ginger and Chilli Jam, which I serve with the cheeseboard in my restaurant. Bon appetit!

It turns out that the cream cracker – a British household staple – is not British, strictly speaking. America was the birthplace, and every half–decent general store would have a barrel full of these easily made, cheap crackers, originally sold as a source of roughage for the maintaining of a healthy US……you know. But it is nonetheless a quintessential household prescence here in GB due to the endeavours of brothers William and Robert Jacob. They took note of the popularity of the US cracker and upon his return to his Dublin factory  he began production of the cream cracker as we know it in 1885. It was no doubt that their plainness appealed to the Victorian sensibilty, who no doubt viewed anything spicy or stimulating as a tool of Beelzebub to corrupt the morals. The cracker fitted this attitude like a glove. Other countries have similar cracker biscuits, but none seem to taste the same as our perfect Jacob’s. Crisp without being hard, with a mild toasty flavour (and I’m talking mild) and wrapped unmistakeably in a glorious livery of bright orange with a distinctive black diamond holding it’s makers name, Cream Crackers demand to be coupled with a bit of butter and some cheese. I am slightly afraid of  stopping to consider just how many cream cracker and Chedddar “sandwiches” I have consumed in my lifetime. Let’s just say it’s a lot. It was my go-to homecoming snack in my schooldays, and anyone with a passing notion of the teenage boy and his unending hunger will get the message. And it really has to be Cheddar. Sorry, but it does. Pesto or Mozzarella di Buffale are divine, but don’t put them on a cream cracker, there’s a good soldier. This leads to another illustration of just how well this little crisp biscuit square fits the national psyche. It doesn’t like to make a fuss or put on airs. It despises being thought of as wanting to be above its station. It displays this by being at its best with decidely ordinary cheese. A plastic wrapped chunk of corner shop, mass-produced cheddar is the best friend a cream cracker could have. Leave the earthy, majestic unpasteurised Montgomery Cheddar, or hand crafted Cornish Yarg with its beautiful nettle leaf rind to the oatcake. JCC’s don’t want any trouble.

And just how much more could it be made for British tastebuds and, sadly just as important, wallets? Pale? Check? Crunchy? Check? Cheap? Check. Sold! At one point, JCCs accounted for 50% of the UK cracker market; these days it doesn’t enjoy quite such a monopoly. Times are changing, as shown by Jacob’s launch of the Mediterranean version of the sacred Cream Cracker. But would you really want to try and eat three of those without a drink? (Sorry, forgot to mention. The cracker has another beloved British use, namely as entertainment for drunken crowds or children’s parties. The idea is to eat three, without the aid of liquid lubrication, in under 60 seconds. Sounds easy, but for anyone who has tried, it becomes akin to trying to eat a mouthful of sand. Oh, and the world record is 49.15secs, held by Ambrose Mendy) Despite these moves towards a more internationally welcoming nibble, I can’t imagine a time when we will evolve past the simple, unassuming delight of the triple whammy – crunchy biscuit, salty butter and completely non-farmhouse cheese.
“Don’t forget the crackers, lad.” I’m with Wallace and Gromit.

TOMATO, GINGER AND CHILLI JAM

• Makes approximately 750ml-1litre, depending on how “jammy” you like it!
• 
  
• 500g very ripe tomatoes
• 4 cloves garlic, peeled
• 4 red chillies
• 1 thumb-sized piece of root ginger, peeled and chopped
• 30ml Thai fish sauce
• 300g golden caster sugar
• 100ml red wine vinegar
• 
  
• 
  
• METHOD
• 1. Dice half of the tomatoes.2. Blend the whole tomatoes in a food processor along with the garlic, chillies, ginger and fish sauce until the mixture reaches a pureé consistency.

  2. Pour the mixture into a deep heavy-based pan together with the sugar and vinegar. Bring to the boil and slowly stir.

  3. Once the mixture has reached boiling point, reduce to a simmer and add the remaining diced tomatoes.

  4. Skim off any scum that forms with a metal spoon and cook for 30 -40 minutes, stirring from time to time to prevent sticking.

  5. Pour the mixture into a warmed sterilised jar. Seal while still warm and label the jars when cold. Alternatively pour on a glass serving dish and allow to cool before serving.

NB: These make a great Christmas present along with some fine unpasteurised cheeses from your local cheesemonger. Oh, it’s just Allison and me that have one of those, then. Damn you, intensive farming!

-Casey (Here Goes Nothing)